


Acceptance is a Four-Letter Word

by thefrogg



Series: Abandoned Works from LJ [7]
Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Shapeshifting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-04
Updated: 2013-03-04
Packaged: 2017-12-04 08:19:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/708582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrogg/pseuds/thefrogg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnny Weir refused to let go of his Olympic dreams, despite age and injury.  Five months before the 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, he stopped talking to anyone outside his coach.  Now he's in Sochi early, and the rest of his generation of skaters are determined to find out why the last of them still competing has gone missing in spirit, if not in body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted to my livejournal.

The stylized dolphin charm wobbles slightly on its cord, gleaming dully in the artificial light of the hotel bathroom, and Johnny has to suppress the faint, sickening urge to clean it until the grooves have smoothed out, the black and grey tarnish vanishes from the silver beneath.

Instead, he takes a deep breath and pulls the cord over his head, straightening the charm between the wings of too-prominent collarbones with a splayed hand. Then, stepping over the side of the tub and bracing himself - hard - against the chill tile with one forearm, he yanks the tap all the way to the left.

Water sprays over him, gradually warming, and the weird, disturbing, and weirdly disturbing _painlessness_ of the lower half of his body rearranging itself in a cacophony of snapping bones and tearing flesh takes over his senses.

~~~

Stéphane slips through the door quietly, thanking whoever cares to listen for the existence of fans working in Sochi's hotel industry, then gives up on the half-hearted and pathetic attempt at stealth - Gaga's _The Fame Monster_ is playing, though at a reasonable level, from somewhere across a mostly-hidden room already liberally splashed with pink and black and glittery _somethings._ And the shower is running.

Neither is loud enough to cover up the sound of something heavy being peeled off the floor and thudding back down, repeatedly, or Johnny's tear-choked curses. The former makes no sense, and Stéphane pushes the incoherent, multi-lingual cursing to the back of his mind for a moment as he tries to figure it out before giving up and edging into the bathroom.

Stéphane still can't figure out what the noise is, or make heads or tails of Johnny's silhouetted form behind the shower curtain. It doesn't look right, it doesn't sound right. "Johnny?"

There's no mistaking the yelp or the sudden chorded squeals of skin-on-tile. Stéphane lunges forward before he realizes he's even reacting, sweeping the curtain aside and catching Johnny before he can fall, one arm across his upper back, one...lower...

"Johnny?" He has no time to figure this out now, he's soaked, hair plastered to his skull, water raining down, Johnny getting heavier with each panicked breath...and there's a hard, convex _something_ pressing against his arm, arcing its way out of Johnny's back. The water-slick skin against his own is hard and rubbery, with little give.

He struggles to back up, dragging Johnny bodily out of the tub, and only tightens his arms as the broad, grey-black expanse of what had once been feet flops lazily over the edge to _splat_ against the wet floor.

"No." The protest is weak, mumbled into Stéphane's shoulder; he can feel the press of nails where Johnny's wrapped around him, one hand above his shoulder blade, the other next to his spine. "Not, not supposed...not _dry."_ The last comes out as half whimper, half wail.

"I have you, Johnny." The words come easily, somehow, whispered blind into Johnny's ear as Stéphane lowers them both to the floor. Johnny's shaking in his arms. He lets go long enough to swipe the water out of his eyes and glances down, just to see, to make sure...

Johnny's legs are gone. He hadn't been seeing things.

"You. Johnny. You're--dolphin?" Stéphane can't put together a coherent sentence any more than Johnny can, despite the curious lack of, well, of curiosity. It's just one more difference about a man who insisted on being different, and being okay with that.

Only, it's all too obvious that Johnny's not okay with this.

"Don't--" Johnny still won't look up, still has his face tucked against Stéphane's neck, so that Stéphane can feel the swallow. "Don't. Let it get. Dry." He stops then, licks his lips, and Stéphane can feel that, too, a quick rough-wet slide against his skin.

"Okay. Okay. We can do this." Stéphane reaches up for a towel and thrusts it into the shower, holding it until it's sopping wet and his arm aches. "Hold onto me," he says softly, and waits for the answering crush of Johnny's grip before easing his tail to the floor, using both hands to gently spread the dripping towel over charcoal and white. "Is this enough?" Stéphane asks, voice gentle, even though he knows it isn't. Johnny's bare tailflukes are still twitching against the side of the tub, and Stéphane wonders just how sensitive Johnny's skin is, now.

"No," Johnny manages, and Stéphane can feel him choke up, nose and forehead scrunching close and dragging the skin of his own neck with them. "I can't, I have to--" Whatever he was going to say gets lost in the sob he can't suppress hard enough, fast enough.

"I have you, Johnny, shhh," and Stéphane pulls him impossibly closer, holding the wet towel in place against Johnny as he slams his tail against the tub over and over in his distress. It doesn't take long for Johnny to cry himself into exhaustion, for the loud thumps of his tail to dwindle to soft pats, and Stéphane is thankful for it. This new form - new to him, at least, and judging from Johnny's condition, not all that old to him, either - doesn't have a pelvis, is nothing like Disney's mermaids _("And wouldn't Johnny love that?"_ some small voice adds unhelpfully), and has no way to really sit on anything; his back is just one long curve into his tail, broken only by the sharp blade of a dorsal fin Stéphane still hasn't managed to look at properly.

"Can you tell me about this?" Stéphane asks finally, when Johnny's fallen still save the panting breath against his neck, hot and moist. He can tell Johnny's not asleep - there's no way he could be asleep, not with the death grip he has on Stéphane, digging furrows in his shirt and leaving bruises beneath, sharp crescents of pain filling with blood beneath neatly kept nails.

"I--" Johnny tries, he really does, Stéphane knows, but his shoulders hitch, and there's another thump of his tail, and Stéphane's half afraid he's going to dissolve into tears again when his brain decides to start working.

"This is why no one's heard from you in months." Stephane hears himself speak, recognizes his voice, but not the blandness of it.

 _"No."_ The denial is sharp; Johnny finally raises his head the little he can in his position to give him a watery glare. "This--" and he _slams_ the tub again for emphasis, "I can deal with. I think. It's...more complicated than that." The words fall to a pained whisper, mumbled against Stéphane's shoulder again as what little strength Johnny dredged up fails him.

Stéphane has to laugh - has to, because otherwise he'd join Johnny in breaking down in tears. "They always are when it comes to you."

Johnny doesn't answer him, just nuzzles Stéphane's shoulder and allows himself to relax - as much as he can, since his grip is about the only thing keeping him from rolling off of Stéphane's knees.

Stéphane lets him, listens to Johnny's breathing slow, feels his lashes brush his own skin, all the while crooning soft comfort in Swiss until his own body is screaming retribution. "Johnny?"

"Mmm?" Johnny rocks his head a little, looking up just enough to give Stéphane a flash of eye contact.

"You know I would hold you as long as you like, but my body, it is getting old, and this new body of yours, it is…awkward."

Johnny chokes out a laugh at the obvious avoidance. "You'll have to help me roll over, well, half over," because if Stéphane let go, he'd go face down into the floor, but his tail's all twisted to one side, and really, that _can't_ be comfortable.

"Yes, yes, we need more towels," Stéphane mutters, peeling wet cloth from wet skin and helping untangle their arms, easing Johnny to the floor in the process.

Johnny catches his breath when Stéphane helps turn his tail right-side down, hands firm; he flinches when the towel is dragged up his body, past where his hips would have been, and hooked over the grey-streaked dorsal fin at the base of his ribcage.

"Johnny? I did not hurt you? I am sorry, I do not-"

"No, no, I. Just." Johnny just shrugs helplessly and flips his tail, refusing to look up.

"You will tell me if I hurt you? Johnny." And that comes out more scolding than Stéphane had wanted, but he can't help it. They're figure skaters. Pain is a given, but only done to themselves in the pursuit of their craft, never to one another.

Johnny's breathing is rough and uneven, audible over the shower and the music still playing out in the main room as Stéphane painfully kneels next to him. He stays silent, half-propped on his elbows.

"Johnny?"

The look Johnny turns up to him should never be seen, never be needed, Stéphane thinks, plaintive and confused and pained and somehow hopeful despite all of that. "I've never…No one's…No one's ever…I only…" He breaks off, blushing a deep red and ducking his head as if trying to hide.

Stéphane blinks. "No one's ever touched you in this form before."

Johnny shakes his head frantically, water spraying from his hair.

The realization, the intimacy implied drags a sigh from Stéphane, and he brushes a hand over a hunched shoulder. "I am honored, my friend." Johnny shrugs again, as if to say _"No big deal,"_ and Stéphane swallows hard, eyes burning with his own unshed tears. "You will tell me if I hurt you, yes? If I do something you are not comfortable with?" he adds, hesitating, because Johnny can't be _that_ comfortable with this, not yet, and he might not have been responding to pain.

"I don't know-"

"Johnny."

Johnny looks up so fast Stéphane can almost hear his neck crack in protest. Fury burns in his eyes, but the anger is only for himself as he finishes. "I don't know how anything's supposed to feel."

"Then start with what you know and tell me as we go along. Johnny, please," Stéphane adds as Johnny tucks his chin to his chest and stares at the floor, muscles bunching in his shoulders; there's no accompanying thump of his tail and Stéphane isn't sure how to interpret the lack. "You have been there always when I needed you, with open arms and open heart. You never rejected the same from me. Don't start now, Johnny. Don't start now."

There's another suppressed sob, and a sniff, and a swallow as Johnny forces his breathing to steady. "I. Okay," he finally says, almost inaudible over the hissing of the shower and Gaga wanting his love in the background.

 _"Bien._ I will be gentle as possible." Stéphane runs a soothing hand over Johnny's back, scratches a little under the hair lying in matted curls at the base of his skull, the way he knows would normally turn Johnny into a pile of purring mush. 

This time, Johnny only hiccups and relaxes a little, but it is a start, and for the next little while, Stéphane only concentrates on keeping his promise as Johnny periodically writhes and twitches under his hands, and ignoring the squeaks and giggles and protests of _"Not THERE, please, god-fucking-damn,"_ even as he ducks the reflexive swipe of Johnny's tail and winds up half sprawled across his upper body, dorsal fin digging into his ribs. By the time they finish, they're both breathing hard. Johnny's red-faced in embarrassment, color fading slowly; his tail's wrapped in all but one of the hotel towels, flukes still bare, Stéphane's hands rubbing them almost hypnotically-he's finding that it's as good as a backrub for making Johnny melt into whatever flat surface he's lying on. 

"You are all right?"

"'M not doin' that again," Johnny mumbles into the floor. 

"Tired?" Because Stéphane knows that tone, knows that nothing short of Galina on a rampage is going to get him to move, much less actually do something.

"'M not moving," Johnny says, stating the obvious, and then adds in the same half-dead monotone, "Y'can keep rubbing, though."

"I could, yes, but I was thinking I would make phone calls. We should move you to the bed. Yes? Much more comfortable. There are pillows!"

"Stéphane. I have a tail. I have to keep it _wet."_ Apparently the prospect of offending the hotel is almost as bad as the threat of Galina.

"Yes, yes, I have a plan!"

 _"God save me from crazy Swiss men with a plan,"_ Johnny whines in Russian, but it doesn't sound like he really means it, and a moment later he shudders and goes absolutely _limp_ as Stéphane digs his knuckles into his flukes and rubs and rubs and rubs until Johnny's half-dozing on the pleasure. He barely notices when Stéphane slows, then stops, and whispers a soft _"Dors bien, mon ami,"_ on his way out of the bathroom, swiping the last towel.

After giving himself a cursory drying off and borrowing one of Johnny's t-shirts, Stéphane places a call to housekeeping on the hotel phone, then takes out his thankfully still-working cell.

"Tanith?" And then he has to stop, completely incapable of telling her what's going on. _"Merde._ You will have to see. And keep open mind. This is…this is magical zebras in winter. But for real." 

***


	2. Chapter 2

Tanith knocks quietly on the door; Stéphane lets her in, no, _drags_ her in, one hand clamped on a wrist and stopping her just far enough inside to close the door behind her. “I—Stéphane, where is—“

“Shhhh, he is sleeping. I just…you can see he is in one piece, and help me with making the bed. Yes?” There’s something manic, something determined in his eyes. It’s the same expression that had been in Stéphane’s eyes some two-plus years before, when he’d…

 _No._ Tanith takes a deep breath, shoves those thoughts aside. “Let me see him?”

“Just. Try not to wake him?”

Tanith nods absently, craning her neck as if to see around Stéphane. “I thought you said—“

“In the bathroom.” Stéphane steps backwards, across the open doorway, and Tanith realizes the shower’s running.

Tanith’s first glimpse of Johnny makes her brain seize up, breath catch in her throat. Her heart seems to stop momentarily, build up pressure, and she can’t suppress a sharp, mournful cry – he looks so _wrong_ there, lax, lying on the floor, and she can’t tell why, her eyes can’t translate the dark strips of visible skin, the fan of his tail, the shadows under the towels, and all she can think of is blood.

“Oh my God,” she moans helplessly; it’s too much like her nightmares, too much like the nightmares much of the skating community has had these past two years, and she goes to her knees, reaching out to touch, to make sure he’s alive. “Johnny?”

“Tanith!” But Stéphane’s hiss of warning comes too late.

Johnny flinches to awareness, looks up blearily, and freezes. “No. Sté…no, no, nononono…” He shake his head wildly, lifting himself on his elbows, shoving backward so his tail slides awkwardly up the side of the tub in his effort to get away.

“Johnny, I—“

“Go away.”

Tanith jerks back as if she’s been slapped, eyes going blurry with tears and finally, _finally,_ she starts seeing properly, realizes why Johnny’s so desperate to get away from her. Knows what he thinks he’s just seen on her face, in her eyes. “Johnny, I thought you were hurt, I thought you were dead, this is—this is amazing, I—“

Johnny’s tail is thrashing now, slamming the side of the tub and the wall next to it, threatening to pull down the shower curtain until Stéphane carefully steps over Tanith to shut the water off with one hand and corral Johnny’s flukes with the other arm and start rubbing again, so not above using Johnny’s sensitivity against him. The wet towels are a mess, lying in sad piles and puddles on the floor, most of Johnny’s lower body exposed.

“Johnny, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—that wasn’t what you thought, I swear,” Tanith whispers over his quiet, gasping sobs; she only knows he’s crying from the jerky movements of his shoulders and the hitch in his breath, because he’s long since collapsed flat on the floor again, and faces away from her, toward the corner under the sink. She looks up helplessly at Stéphane and cringes at the banked anger in his eyes, knowing there will be little if any help from that quarter as he carefully resettles Johnny’s tail and covers it with the towels again. “Johnny, please, you’re my friend. You think I’m going to hate you because you’re some kind of merfolk? I thought you were hurt again, I never want to see you hurt, not ever, not like that.” Johnny’s shivering under her fingers as she risks a delicate touch to his shoulder, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, and she counts it as a win.

Stéphane mutters in Swisse, something dark and full of murderous implications, Tanith’s sure, as he gets to his feet, and stalks out of the bathroom with a “Do not touch the tail,” snarled down at her just before he vanishes from sight.

“I won’t, I won’t, I promise, I—oh, God.” Tanith’s still rubbing Johnny’s shoulder, fingertips brushing the curls at his neck now and again, and Johnny’s reached up to wrap one semi-coordinated hand around her calf, nails digging into her thigh. “Here, let me…” She straightens her legs, feeling her pants soak through in odd places from the mess of water on the floor, but ignores it as Johnny inches himself closer until his forehead rests against her thigh, one arm around her waist.

Johnny says nothing, just lies there and lets Tanith pet him as Gaga goes on and on in the background, until there’s a knock at the door a nd soft voices in the foyer and a too-reconizable Russian accent.

“Evgeni, Johnny’s fine,” Tanith says clearly, even though she knows it’s a lie; he’s too thin, even for a figure skater, and he has to be a wreck emotionally, between the Trophee Eric Bompard ’10 and the accident and five months of self-imposed isolation and now this, but she doesn’t want a repeat of her own horrified reaction. Johnny’s gone rigid under her hand, and she finds herself whispering, “It’s okay, it’s all right, Johnny,” and rubbing up and down his spine before there’s a soft exclamation in Russian from somewhere above and behind her. She twists around and up to see Evgeni pinching the bridge of his nose, a small half-smile, half-smirk of amused affection on his lips.

“Now why does this not surprise me?”

Johnny lets out a muffled snort of laughter, which makes Tanith squeal – it tickles, and she swats him gently in the shoulder, more of a pat, really. 

“Let me get this straight. The magical zebra in winter isn’t…actually magical, but the Swan turns half- _dolphin.”_ Evgeni follows it up with more in Russian, which has Johnny shaking in helpless giggles and clutching at Tanith’s leg. “Someone explain this to me!”

Stéphane slaps his shoulder hard enough to make him jump and spin halfway around in surprise. “I think you just did. Now, help me move him to the bed? Much more comfortable with pillows.”

Evgeni nods. “We can do this.”


	3. Chapter 3

Moving Johnny to the bed is a lot more awkward than it sounded, Evgeni thinks as he watches Stéphane get down on aching knees next to Johnny’s tail. They’ve already slid him across the floor so he’s head and shoulders over carpet. Tanith’s standing barefoot on his flukes – 

_“Doesn’t this hurt?” She sounds worried, half-panicked._

_Johnny flushes deep red all the way down his back as Stéphane laughs. “No, no, shift your weight and you will put him to sleep again.”_

_Tanith reflexively scrunches her toes a few times, and Johnny shudders all over, head dropping down between his arms with a deep sigh of what can only be pleasure._

_Stéphane smiles gleefully; Tanith gives Evgeni a surprised look and they all know they’ll be taking turns giving Johnny tailrubs after that reaction._

\--to keep him from smacking Stéphane in case he hits a ticklish spot.

“Ready?” Stéphane asks.

“Yes, yes, just do it,” Johnny snaps, and then yelps and latches onto Evgeni’s ankles with both hands hard enough that his knuckles are white.

Evgeni grits his teeth and holds onto the doorjamb, ignoring the undignified squeaks and soft French; if Johnny leaves marks this time, he’ll bear them with the same pride as those on his forearms.

Then the hands clutching his ankles are gone. “Okay, okay, that’s—that’s good.”

“I can—“ Tanith starts, but doesn’t finish and doesn’t wait for permission before she steps carefully over Stéphane, one hand on his shoulder for balance, and scoots out the door and under Evgeni’s arm.

“I will take left, yes?” And Evgeni’s suiting actions to words, bending to pull Johnny’s offered arm over his own shoulder.

Tanith nods and does the same on the other side, and with a quick count of three, they have him suspended midair, half in and half out of the bathroom. Evgeni doesn’t miss the way Johnny curls himself around the corner, keeping Tanith and Stéphane from running into a wall or doorframe in their maneuverings.

Once out of the crush of the hallway, it’s all open space, and they ease him to the bed and Stéphane’s oddly constructed pile of trash bags, towels and bag- and towel-wrapped pillows. Evgeni lets himself slide to his knees beside the bed, eye-level with Johnny as he buries his hands under the pillow. “It has been too long.”

Johnny chokes on a sob, something shattering in his eyes. “I’m, I’m sorry, I—“

Evgeni can feel the heat of twin glares, but doesn’t look away as Johnny buries his face in the pillow. “No, I know, you need say nothing. Do not apologize.” He raises one hand, rests it on Johnny’s shoulder. “It is good to see you. It is good to see my friend, Johnny Weir,” and they both know – they all know – he’s not talking about the physical.

Johnny slips a hand from under the pillow and reaches out, tentatively, as if unsure of his welcome, and Evgeni moves closer, slides his arm along Johnny’s and leans in, Johnny’s breath warm on his neck as he folds himself down into an uncomfortable but oh-so-necessary hug.

The glares are gone, Tanith and Stéphane both moving quietly around the room while Evgeni whispers Russian in Johnny’s ear, his hold as tight as Johnny’s. Evgeni’s knees are starting to throb with pain, but he doesn’t let go until Johnny gives a yelp of surprise and flinches, twisting around to watch as Stéphane shakes the last few drops of water out of an ice bucket over his tail.

Stéphane looks unbearably innocent. “You said you had to keep it wet.”

“Yes, but—I—a little warning first?” Johnny manages, blushing again, and Evgeni has to chuckle at his disgruntlement, knowing the interruption had been deliberate. 

Tanith doesn’t bother stifling her laughter.

“It is getting close to lunch time,” Evgeni says once Tanith’s calmed and sitting on the edge of the other bed. “Are you hungry? There is room service, or we could bring you something…”

The conflict on Johnny’s face is naked and painful to watch, exhaustion and hunger forcing him into silence until Stéphane, out of Johnny’s view, gives a small sigh and a sad smile and starts rubbing his flukes again. “Okay, okay,” Johnny whispers shakily, half muffled by the pillow suddenly against his cheek. “I give. Nap first? Then room service. Tara doesn’t book me where the food isn’t _awesome.”_

Evgeni isn’t sure Johnny’s awake to hear his reply in the affirmative.

“Please tell me he’s asleep,” Tanith whispers a few tense moments later.

“Yes.” Stéphane speaks softly, but does not bother to whisper. “It does not take long, like this. I think—between his leg, and jetlag, and, well.”

Evgeni nods, and gives Tanith a considering look, raising an eyebrow as she locates Johnny’s Balenciaga – dark purple, this time – and fishes his phone out of it. “Why?”

“Tara doesn’t book him where the food isn’t _awesome._ Except Johnny looks—he looks—“ And she only stands there and shakes, looking down at Johnny’s unconscious form, the bones in his upper torso not quite skeletal, not yet, but far too prominent for _competition weight_ to be a believable explanation. After a minute, after forcibly calming her breathing to something resembling normal, she turns back to the phone in her hand. “I’m taking this and calling Tara and finding out why the fuck he looks like that.”

“Da. We will stay and, and keep his tail wet? Yes?” Evgeni shares a glance with Stéphane, and then Tanith is gone, door closing with a quiet click behind her. “Pardon for asking, but…what happens if his tail, if it dries out?” he asks, unable to keep eye contact and looking down at Johnny’s profile, the dark circles under his eyes so much more obvious now.

“That, I do not know, but he says he must keep it wet, so I help him to keep it wet.” Stéphane shrugs, then turns and disappears around the corner, refilling the ice bucket.

Evgeni ruffles Johnny’s curls gently, toeing off his shoes and socks before sliding onto the bed, up near the wall above Johnny’s mountain of pillows and towels. (Stéphane must have raided several maids’ carts for all of this – there’s enough pillows stacked to support the natural arch of Johnny’s tail.) “Ah, Johnnik, what are we going to do with you, my friend.” The words earn him a look of understanding and commiseration as Stéphane pours more water over Johnny’s tail.

“Here,” Stéphane says, pushing the bucket over across the bare sheet before climbing onto the bed near the foot, down by Johnny’s flukes. “He likes his dorsal fin rubbed too, but your fingers, they have to be wet. Otherwise…” He shrugs, dipping his own hands in the half-full bucket and focuses on rubbing Johnny’s flukes again.

Johnny, for his part, sighs in his sleep and sinks deeper into the pillows.

Evgeni is quiet, then, as much from a lack of words as out of respect for Johnny’s rest. His hands carefully fold back the topmost towel, uncovering the charcoal-and-smoke fin, glossy with moisture, and he has to wonder if it hurts Johnny when it slides out of his flesh. Then his fingers are wet, and brushing over the graceful curve, skin rubbery and sleek. He aches to see him swim, and has to wonder if Johnny ever has, like this. “This is…” Tears close his throat, and he scrubs at his eye with his free hand.

“Yes, it is.”

There is a hand on his arm in wordless support, water soaking through to his skin; he does not acknowledge it, and it vanishes, but the camaraderie between them has not been broken. Evgeni swallows hard past the memories. “I have—“ he starts, then again, “I have seen him shaking in anger, I have seen him crying with frustration. I have carried him off the ice in too much pain to even scream. I have not heard his laughter, or seen him truly smile in…in.”

Stéphane is silent; then, quietly, he offers, “I do not believe this form pains him.”

“For that alone I could accept this.” And he presses hard enough on an upward stroke to make Johnny’s skin squeal with the friction. “We may have—we may have gotten him back on the ice, he got himself back on the podium, but we lost him, just the same.”

Stéphane grips Evgeni’s arm again, harder this time. “And perhaps…perhaps this is how we get him back, yes?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Johnny?”

Tanith can’t answer Tara, words stuck in her throat with dull horror and impotent rage at Johnny’s condition. 

“Johnny, are you there? Do I need to send help? Oh, god, I can’t leave right this minute, but I can have—“

“It’s Tanith,” she chokes out, and has to clear her throat.

Tara doesn’t answer right away; Tanith listens to her breathe, listens to her force herself to calm down. “Is Johnny all right?”

“That depends on your definition of all right,” Tanith says flatly. “I need to know what kind of bullshit diet he’s on, because he looks like a damn skeleton.”

“He’s not on a diet.” Tara’s voice is sad, and under other circumstances, Tanith might call even call it griefstricken.

“Then tell me.” The rage hardens to a knot of white-hot pain and can’t find any other outlet. “How the hell—“

“Do not give me the eating disorder bullshit, Tanith!”

“What else is there—“

_“YOU WEREN’T HERE!”_

Tanith yanks the phone away from her ear at Tara’s roar before gingerly listening again.

“…be forever grateful to you and all the others who came and dragged Johnny around the rink and made sure he didn’t kill himself doing it, but you aren’t here for the hard stuff! You were here for the grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it, smile-for-the-cameras, it’s-only-pain crap he shows the whole fucking _world_ since the accident! There’s been a new ruler in Johnny’s life, and it’s not even skating! It’s his fucking leg, and we count ourselves lucky to get six good meals in him a week!”

“Tara—“ Tanith tries to interrupt.

“Listen to me. Listen to me!” It sounds like Tara’s fighting back tears, or maybe a panic attack. Maybe both. “I’ll give you the Care and Feeding of Johnny Weir post-accident, and email you the rest of the manual, but _listen to me!_ He’s not on a fucking diet. He eats what he wants, when he wants, and I do mean _when he wants._ Try and get him to eat when he’s not hungry and he’ll throw up. Pain flares make him nauseous. He won’t even take water after training because he hurts too much to keep anything down.”

“Wait.” Tanith jumps in when Tara pauses to catch her breath. “There’s a manual?”

“Yes, there’s a fucking manual. Johnny knows about it, he helped write the damn thing. It’s me, Galina and Viktor taking care of him now, because half the time he can’t and he hasn’t spoken to his family or Paris in _months.”_

“Okay. Okay. I’m, I’m. I have no idea what’s going on, obviously. I’m sorry.” Tanith bites her lip, tasting blood. “Can you tell me—“

“E-triple-S. Eating, Sleeping, Skating, and Scars. Got something to write with?”

“Hold on,” and Tanith scrambled for the hotel notepad. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Eating. No coconut. No raspberry anything. Nothing really hot-spicy. They upset his stomach. If he’s hungry, and he’s due to train or do PT in the next four hours, call me. I’ll rearrange his schedule. Do not tease him about how much or what he orders. The whole point of this is to get as much nutrition into him as possible, not watch him starve to death. He’s under the care of a nutritionist and a doctor, and yes, he’s borderline dangerously underweight. We do the best we can with it within Johnny’s limitations, you got me?”

Tanith swallows hard. “I understand.”

“Good. I really do mean it about not talking about how much he orders – if he can’t decide on what he wants, he’ll order half the damn menu and graze for as long as his appetite holds out.”

“He said he’d be up for lunch. Should I go ahead and–“ 

“If you want brownie points with him, go ahead and order the menu,” Tara finished for her. “God knows he can afford it. Just make sure—“

“No coconut, no raspberry, nothing spicy. Got it.”

“Sleeping. If he manages to get to sleep without drugs or alcohol, let him sleep. I’ll send you his schedule with the manual – I’m not getting in for another two days. If something needs rescheduling, call me. Let him sleep. Sponsors and the press are used to having to work around him by now. He usually can’t sleep for more than a half hour or forty minutes at a time. If you happen to be in the room with him, and he gets restless, shift the position his leg’s in. Put a pillow under it, or take it out, or turn it. It might be enough to let him sleep for another half hour.”

“Jesus, Johnny.” Tanith shuts her eyes, the pen digging into her knuckles painfully.

“Something like that,” Tara says, and it doesn’t carry the slightest bit of amusement, just a brittle sarcasm. “Skating. He does not skate alone. You should know that one already.”

“No shit.”

“When he’s done skating, he doesn’t take his skates off alone. Once he gets one off, you take it away from him.”

Tanith can’t even move, can’t breathe, at the implications.

“He hasn’t done anything, but he’s said enough that we don’t take any chances. Not with his skates. Not ever.”

“He—he—“

“He’s in constant pain, Tanith, the painkillers barely touch it. He’s no JR Celski to cut himself open and compete with little more than a scar to show for it. Johnny shouldn’t be walking, much less flinging himself around on the ice, medals notwithstanding.”

“Why? Why does he—it must hurt so much—“

“You know why. Everyone, the whole damn _world_ knows why. They told him he couldn’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

Stéphane lets Tanith back in at her quiet tap-tap-tap on the door, peeking through the peephole before opening the door. She slips through with a quiet thank you and a sigh, and he can see the anger's gone, replaced with an odd mix of bleak despair and determination.

Oddly, she has the room service menu from her room in one hand.

"That hungry?" he asks with a raised brow. "Johnny is still sleeping, it has not been long enough to count as a nap-"

Tanith brushes past him, reaching over Johnny to hand the menu to Evgeni. "Tara told me what to get him. I figure it'll take a while for them to fix it, so we might as well order and let him sleep until it gets here."

"Something wrong with him? Beside the obvious," Evgeni says, brushing his free hand over Johnny's shoulder.

Johnny doesn't stir.

Tanith can't look at them, any of them, and stares down at the carpet, at Johnny's phone in her hand, at the black screen of the television. "Tell me he's not hurting," she whispers finally. "Please. Tell me he's not, he's not-"

Stéphane can't stand it anymore, and goes and wraps himself around Tanith like a warm Swiss blanket; he braces himself as she lets herself fall, leaning into his body. "Shhhh. It is okay. I do not know for certain, and I do not wish to wake him to ask. But there are no scars, there is no sign of his injury in this form, I looked very hard and find nothing." He meets Evgeni's gaze over her shoulder as she shakes in his arms.

"He laughed, Tanith," Evgeni says, his voice sounding strained. "He laughed, and I see him smile. Real smile, not fake smile like for camera. I do not see pain in him."

Tanith sniffs back tears, resting her hands over Stéphane's wrists. "I-good." She starts to peel herself out of Stéphane's embrace. "Do you know what you want?" The sudden normalcy sounds forced, brittle, and Stéphane can't leave it alone.

"Tanith." Stéphane's hands dig into her shoulders. "What does Tara say?"

"She says he hurts too much." She pauses to breathe, harsh and uneven. "Too much to eat, too much to keep food down when he can, too much to sleep, too much for the meds to help. Just. Too. Much." And she pulls herself away, almost jerking herself out of Stéphane's grasp, turning to the desk and the menu for Johnny's room.

There is more, things she's leaving out, but Stéphane can't bring himself to ask.

"Then this is good thing," Evgeni says matter-of-factly. 

"It'll let him eat and sleep, now, like this, but the rest?" She sighs and collapses into the chair, picking up the pen. She doesn't look up as she continues, "He's spent two years learning how to manage the pain, what happens when he shifts and it all comes back?"

Stéphane and Evgeni share a look of concern and confusion, listening as Tanith's pen rasps across paper.

"Perhaps…perhaps this is like the stories? He is not, what you call, werewolf, but…" Evgeni speaks tentatively. "Perhaps this will let him heal? I think it, perhaps, unwise to risk without that."

The pen clatters to the desk; Tanith buries her face in her hands. "Don't. Just-"

"What else did Tara say?" Stéphane finally asks.

Tanith's breath comes out a thin whine. "She-they have to take his skates away. He never did anything, but, but-they have to take his skates away."

Surprisingly, the awkward tension suddenly dies away.

"Is not surprise. We take them off for him, in the beginning. Is too big risk." Evgeni shrugs, as if the unspoken _Johnny's suicidal_ is no big deal.

"He was _paralyzed_ in the beginning. He couldn't move from hurting so much, it wasn't-"

"Was it not?" Stéphane interrupts. "You were there, you saw him. No one thought he could."

"You did." Tanith's eyes are sad, guilty.

"He needed hope. That, I could give him."

Tanith's silent, staring down at the menu and its glossy pages for several seconds before whispering, "Hope _hurts."_

"Is easy to give up. But we skate. Everything hurts. Does not mean we give up." Evgeni shrugs again. "We ask after lunch. Find out how we help. Here," he says, holding the menu out to Stéphane.

"They have burger and fries, yes? I will have that. Johnny needs to eat, I do not need to keep girlish figure so badly." Stéphane smiles sweetly as he takes the menu anyways. "Oh! Pie! With ice cream, yes, please."

"Gag me with a spoon," Tanith mutters under her breath, but it sounds like she's trying to suppress laughter, even if it is a bit on the hysterical side, and the subject of Johnny and his problems is shelved in favor of calling room service.

At least, until Evgeni tires of listening to Tanith argue and clarify and repeat herself and confiscates the phone. Tanith shoves a battered piece of paper under his nose and jabs a finger at it until he nods, already speaking rapidly in Russian.

All Stéphane can understand is Evgeni's name and Johnny's, and a handful of words he's heard too many times not to misunderstand - the ubiquitous _yes, no, please, thank you_ most of them know in more languages than any of them consciously realize after touring and traveling worldwide for most of their lives.

Evgeni finally hangs up the phone. "That. Is a lot of food." He sounds breathless with laughter.

Tanith shrugs, hugging herself, but doesn't answer.

Stéphane blinks. "What did you order for him?"

"The menu. Minus a few things." Tanith's back to sounding half-dead.

"Ah." Stéphane can't find words for a long moment. "Yes, that would be a lot of food," he says finally, taking a seat on the second bed.

For the next little while, there is sporadic talk of inconsequential things, until the phone rings and Johnny flinches awake, wide-eyed and confused.

"Were you expecting-" Tanith starts, then stops as Evgeni picks up the receiver before the phone can ring again and speaks briefly _(yes, thank you)._

"Lunch?" Johnny asks, quiet and groggy.

"Yes, my friend, lunch comes." Evgeni pats his shoulder again, then looks thoughtful as Johnny starts shoving at the pillows supporting his upper torso. "Problem?"

"Can't eat like this," Johnny says, laughing sadly. Half a dozen pillows wind up piled carelessly on the floor.

"Here," Stéphane says. He unfolds a trash bag that had escaped his bed-making and holds it out flat, sliding it under Johnny one arm at a time. "Can you hold yourself up long enough?"

Johnny shrugs, a motion that involves his entire body. "I'll have to. I can't shift back now or I'll have to start all over again."

Stéphane wants to ask what he means, can see the ache of it on Tanith's face, on Evgeni's, but there is a knock at the door, and then they're juggling trays and steering carts of stacked, covered dishes through the pillows Johnny's shoved to the floor.

Lunch is a fascinating mix of savoring food they don't allow themselves under normal circumstances and watching Johnny sort through appetizers and entrées and salads, soups and sandwiches and desserts (which all have a tiny bite taken accompanied by a soft pornographic moan). Most dishes get tasted; a few get put aside untouched; the chosen half dozen or so are devoured with a dedicated enthusiasm that is almost scary to watch, the dishes scraped clean.

"Johnny?" Stéphane starts warily as Johnny makes his way through his second salad. Tanith glares at him for the interruption, but it's too late.

He glances up, mouth full, and nods at him to continue before swallowing. 

"I-" _do not mean to suggest anything,_ Stéphane wants to say, but catches himself, knowing that the qualifier would only do just that. "Be careful you do not make yourself ill," he says gently.

Snorted laughter interrupts him, and Johnny reaches for his water, downing half the glass before answering. "My stomach is at least three times the size of yours in this form. Which is a good thing, because I lose about a pound and a half every time I shift." He shrugs again, flipping his tail, and goes back to his salad.

"I did not mean…Wait - shift, as in one way."

Johnny makes a noise of disgruntled displeasure, holding up a hand to keep Stéphane from saying more. "Can I finish eating before you start interrogating me?" he asks softly, hiding his eyes.

Stéphane feels his face heat. "Yes, yes, of course. Eat, I will be very quiet." He smiles nervously, pressing one finger over his lips.

Johnny goes back to his salad, but the mood is already broken; he looks nervous as he finishes his salad, and seems to fold in on himself as he picks out another entrée - salmon fillet with some kind of white sauce and mushrooms - and a bowl of potato leek soup. The chocolate cheesecake - with fresh strawberries rather than raspberries - is eaten painfully slowly, tremors running down Johnny's body with each conspicuously silent bite.

Finally, the fork is set down, the empty plate put aside, and Johnny carefully folds the trash bag in on itself; he flinches when Stéphane takes it gently from him, balling it up and tossing it in the garbage.

Johnny's face down on the mattress, one arm hanging straight off the side of the bed, when Stéphane turns around. "Johnny?" Stéphane looks at Evgeni, at Tanith, and only gets shrugs of confusion and concern.

Johnny mumbles something unintelligible into the mattress before propping himself back up on both arms, shaking his whole body like a dog shedding water. Then, awkwardly, he strains forward, reaching down and wiggling his fingers as if that would bridge the gap between his hand and the pillows he'd discarded.

"Here, here, do not go falling out of bed." Evgeni leans down from the other bed and starts tossing pillows at Johnny until he's half buried in them, just a shock of damp black hair and a too-pale arm sticking out of a pile of fluffy white.

Johnny folds his arms around the mass of pillows, not bothering to dig his way out or stuff them beneath him and prop himself into what had to be a more comfortable position (at least, from what Stéphane could see of the curve in his spine). His knuckes turn white through the thin skin of his hands, and the sound of his gasping sobs? Laughter? Something, is almost muffled into silence, to be betrayed by the shaking of his body.

Stéphane circles the bed, moving the bucket out of the way so he can lay down next to Johnny at an angle, shoving his shoulder up against Johnny's arm. His fingers brush Johnny's wrist, and he rocks back as Johnny jerks upward, head clearing the linens, and starts shoving the pillows beneath him. "Johnny." Stéphane manages to catch one before it flops to the floor, and Johnny's hand as they flutter past. "Johnny. What is wrong?"

Johnny shakes his head, peering at him through water-sheened eyes. "I just-I haven't been able to-" Johnny stops, mouth working, obviously struggling for words, then sort of crumples and collapses down on the oh-so-untidy pillows. It's not like him - wasn't like him from before the accident, but Stéphane knew all too well how much Johnny's had to learn to compromise.

"Tara said the pain made you nauseous," Tanith offers quietly from her perch on the other bed.

Johnny laughs again, dissolving into painful hiccuping sobs before going quiet. 

Stéphane looks up at Evgeni, then, crowding closer, rubs Johnny's back. 

After several minutes, Johnny sniffs. "I have, I have a pain scale," he says, as if it should explain everything, and perhaps it would, if Stéphane knew as much as Tara, or Galina and Victor. "You've seen the upper end," he whispers. "But. Um." He sighs gustily, and scrubs at an eye with his fist. "Zero would be, like, a normal person? Not an athlete, no old injuries or whatever. One would be, well. The hip, the foot, all the aches and pains of the injuries that never quite healed properly because I was skating on them," _like an idiot, just like all the rest of us would have,_ Johnny doesn't say, but they can hear it just the same. "Two. Um." He bites his lip, glancing sideways at Stéphane, then over at Evgeni. "You, before the knee surgery. Retirement-level chronic pain."

"That-two?" Evegni blinks and lets out vicious-sounding curse at Johnny's nod.

"Three is-three has pain-induced nausea."

They wait for him to continue, and wait, and finally Evgeni says Johnny's name, verbally poking and prodding gently, implacably.

"I normally consider myself lucky to get through my day under a five. This is, this was," and he stops, peers down at the carpet and takes a deep breath before continuing. "If I could have gotten away with not eating for the last two-plus years, I would have. It's not. I don't have to keep myself from eating anything any more, it's more a matter of making myself eat."

"Johnny," Tanith says, shocked and breathy. "Never-?"

Johnny shakes his head. "Last time I didn't feel nauseous - before, like, now - I was too strung out on painkillers to care how much my leg hurt."

"And painkillers suppress your appetite," Tanith says.

"Are you still hungry?" Stéphane hears himself ask, buying time as he comes to realize that all the energy - emotional and otherwise - that Johnny has had to put into just functioning isn't needed now, that it doesn't have another outlet, that it's bleeding off in other ways. And now he understands why Tanith was glaring at him earlier.

Johnny turns to look at him squarely and doesn't answer, searching his eyes, his face.

Stéphane keeps his expression carefully neutral, concerned, nonjudgmental.

"If I don't pass out, probably in a couple of hours. Maybe sooner, I don't know. I haven't eaten like this, in, in," and he dissolves into quiet tears again, burying his face in the pillow.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "//Speech in slashes is Japanese.//"

_Johnny holds the final pose for a breath, another, then climbs shakily to his feet, hands covering his mouth and nose. His cheeks glitter under the lights with tears of joy, tears of triumph – it hadn’t been a clean skate._

_It had been_ perfect.

 _The crowd roars, chanting his name,_ I love you, Johnny! _in a dozen different languages. No one bothers to wait for the scores, no one cares. It’s all too obvious that Johnny has the gold, the scores are only a formality. He is the last to skate, took first in the short, and now there is no one to skate after him and maybe beat his scores._

_This isn’t Vancouver._

_Johnny breaks out of his little happy nervous breakdown in the rink and skates around in circles, taking his bows, accepting huge arrangements of flowers, roses and lilies, daisies and carnations, a stuffed white swan tucked under his arm as he makes it back to where Viktor and Galina wait for him by the boards with his skate guards._

_The usual end-of-skate activity, hugs from his coaches, praise and congratulations (in the, for Johnny, ubiquitous Russian), slipping on the skate guards with fingers that are starting to shake with reaction. Then the trek to the Kiss and Cry, and Johnny’s sitting on the bench sandwiched between Viktor and Galina, tossing out his thank yous in a tangle of French and Russian, stopping to guzzle half a bottle of water before Galina takes it away with a gentle scold._

_The announcer starts reporting Johnny’s scores, voice strangely monotone, and then the crowd goes eerily quiet. There’s a soft, disbelieving, “That can’t be right—“ before the speakers go silent, but the damage is done._

_Down in the Kiss and Cry, Johnny’s gone from exhausted, giddy and gleeful to sucker-punched, pain naked in his eyes as he shakes his head no. Viktor folds himself around, blocking the camera’s view of Johnny as they both stand, and Galina’s face is a mask of Russian indignant fury, one hand tight on Johnny’s shoulder. Johnny says something, something that has to be about leaving, and then they’re moving, all three of them up and pushing past the shocked gawkers, Viktor stripping out of his jacket and wrapping it over Johnny’s shoulders, high enough to pull it forward to cover his face._

_The crowd is still hushed, murmurs of stunned disbelief rising in a growing swell, changing to anger at the unjust, but Johnny’s gone._

_A touch at the elbow draws attention away from the ice, from the Kiss and Cry, from the paralyzed skaters and coaches and parents and friends left in Johnny’s wake._

_“//Will you ask this time?//”_

_The question is stiff with irony, and gets a sharp head shake in answer. “//No. Do it. I will have my own—//” Whatever else would have been said is lost as someone else clears his throat._

_One of the security guards, expression full of fear and hope both, stands just out of reach, nervously fingering his baton. His eyes flicker to the rink, and he cannot be blamed – the crowd does not have its king here to calm them, as it had in Vancouver._

_This is not Vancouver._

_It had been disappointment and insult in Vancouver; here in Paris it was disbelief and anger, swiftly turning to rage and the potential for violence._

_This is not Vancouver, and_ this isn’t his gold.

_“Take me there, I will speak to crowd.”_

_The security guard nods, relieved, but it is already too late, the tension rising, the crowd is on the move—_

 

Daisuke wakes up in a cold sweat, trembling, and smacks the wall in his flailing attempt to switch the light on. The bedroom shifts from blue and grey to black with a small pool of gold, not unlike the medal with its accompanying ribbon; the metal lies cold and accusing in his palm as he rubs the other over his face.

The dream is too close, too vivid, leaving him caught between it and memory—

_Johnny, standing stone-faced next to him on the podium through the ceremony. Then, as the anthems die away and the camera pans out, turning to him, pressing a kiss to one cheek and whispering “Spasiba”, the other cheek, “merci.” He thinks it will stop there, but Johnny wraps an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close, so their foreheads touch, and says quietly so the camera can’t pick up._

_“You honored me then, and I honor you now. I can’t accept this, not from them. Not now. I’m sorry. It’s not you, any of you.”_

_He can only stand there, stunned, feeling the odd scraping as the ribbon from Johnny’s gold slips over his head, down his neck to rest alongside his own, the two medals clinking together on his chest, a third kiss pressed to his forehead with a whispered thank you in Japanese, and then…_

_And then all of them, Daisuke and Florent and Patrick and the crowd, the media, the ISU bastards, all of them watch as Johnny turns away from the cameras, steps off the back of the podium and leaves the rink without a backward glance._

\--and leaves Daisuke with his heart in his throat, swallowing hard, fist clenched around the medal that should have been Johnny’s.

The medal that was Johnny’s, but left in his keeping.

“Daisuke,” his wife whispers, running a hand down his arm as she leans into him, her body molding itself to his. “//Again?//”

Daisuke can only nod.

“//There are flights to Sochi every morning. There is room. They would understand,//” she says; she, more than almost anyone, knows the strange bond that has twined between her husband and Johnny over the last three-plus years, one of tentative friendship, still skittish, but seeming unbreakable despite the competition, the barriers of language and distance and time.

“//He is the last; I am the first. I cannot...//” Daisuke cannot find words, and finds any possible answer stolen as she straddles him, gently prying the medal out of his fingers.

She sets it back on the bedside table. “//Go, Daisuke. Go to him, you are the one he turned to when he could not speak to the others. I will talk to your coach.//”

“//I need to give that—//“

She cuts him off with a soft kiss. “//You will, when he is ready. When he does not have to answer to the ISU. You will give him his gold, as he deserves.//” Another kiss. “//Sleep now.//”

Daisuke doesn’t think he can, or will, but will no more disobey his wife in this mood as he would have his coach; he turns with her in his arms, tucks her head beneath his chin, and shuts his eyes.

_Someday, Johnny._

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Bien - good  
> Dors bien, mon ami - Sleep well, my friend.  
> Merde - shit


End file.
